


Drink More Water, Head Rush Less

by Bunnys Homicidal Giggle (KelsyLokelani)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Friendship, Gen, RL Influences, Sherlock has Dysautonomia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:35:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelsyLokelani/pseuds/Bunnys%20Homicidal%20Giggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock neglects his Dysautonomia in favor of a case. He suffers the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drink More Water, Head Rush Less

**Author's Note:**

> I'm terrible to Sherlock, I really am.
> 
> I'm giving him Dysautonomia for a while because I'm a meanie. And maybe also so I can explain sort of what it's like to have a bad day with it for me.
> 
> And by this I mean a day when I haven't had enough water or my sodium's too low or my blood pressure just...feels too low in general regardless of what I'm doing and I'm head rushing all over the place. So.
> 
> (I'm not even sorry)

Sherlock had hardly moved from his microscope in two days.

There was something in the back of his mind telling him that this was a bad idea, that he shouldn't have waved away the glasses of water that John had tried to set at his elbow, but the chemical he was working with to reveal the base components of the project he was working on for their case would have contaminated it and it would have been a pointless effort regardless.

He could feel his mistake, now that his train of thought had been brought to it. Every so often, he could feel his heart give a slight palpitation--the smallest of  _th-thmp_ s that, since they had been noticed, were a bit of a discomfort at the edge of his mind. No matter; his body was merely transport.

Sherlock sat back a bit, stretching his shoulders and rolling his neck, as John came into the kitchen. "Sherlock..." John was speaking to him, wonderful. Sherlock looked over, scanning his flatmate briefly: he held his phone; crease between his eyebrows--not pain, concern--occasional glances to the cabinets that held the glasses, the faucet of the sink; almost military posture enhanced by slight irritation.  _Mycroft_.

"What did Mycroft want?" Sherlock interjected. His heart gave several more of the  _th-thmp_ s, all in a row, and Sherlock couldn't help lifting a hand and massaging his breastbone. The feeling of his chest tightening with every breath he took washed over them then, and he dropped his hand to press sharply to his ribs on his next inhale to prevent the feeling of breathlessness from coming. Oh, this was perfect. What a way to end the case.

John narrowed his eyes a bit and tightened his fingers around his phone. "He texted me. Wanting to know if you'd been taking your medication this past few days." Sherlock felt his mouth press into a thin line. "You didn't say anything about needing a medication."

"Because it didn't matter whether you knew or not. Surely, if you  _did_  know, you would treat me as though I were delicate and, John, I can assure you that I am not. Tell him I said to sod off, of course I have." Sherlock started to turn back to his microscope, listening to the tiny clicks of fingertips against tiny keys and knowing with satisfaction that the number of clicks that John was telling Mycroft exactly what he'd said.

Once the chime sounded to alert that the message had been successfully sent, John padded across the kitchen and stood at his shoulder. "Treat you as though you were delicate," he parroted. "Is it something to do with your heart?" Sherlock rolled his eyes behind the microscope eyepiece and sat back again. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock snapped. "And yes, if you've got to know. I've got Dysautonomia, which is--" To his surprise, John interrupted.

"Characterized by low blood pressure, migraines, shortness of breath, and heart palpitations." The look on John's face was more chastising than it was a moment ago. "Sherlock, if you're taking care of it, you're not delicate. If you don't want to be treated delicately, I won't. But..." Ah, here it was.

"Don't." Sherlock made his voice sharp and quick, and he expected John to flinch back. He didn't, though he did stick his phone in his trouser pocket, which eliminated the threat of calling Mycroft. "I'm taking care of it."

As if to prove it, Sherlock shoved himself off of his chair at the kitchen table--

And was almost immediately assaulted with a disorienting wave of black closing over his sight.

He staggered to the counter and curled himself over the flat surface, pressing the side of one fisted hand between his forehead and the cool fake-marble top and gripping the curved edge with the other. Despite his efforts to stay upright and force the rush of blood to his head away, his knees buckled, and he slid to the floor, dragging humiliatingly away from the cabinets to sit on his arse in the middle of the kitchen.

His arms and legs felt like they were full of lead--fingertips and toes especially--and he couldn't see yet; the tunnel vision hadn't cleared. His head was swimming. Judging by the hand between his shoulder blades, John had jumped forward and caught him before his back hit the floor.

"Sherlock--Jesus Christ," John breathed, once Sherlock was steady enough to sit on his own. Sherlock's tongue felt thick and cottony, and the edges of his vision were still a bit sparkly. He pulled in a shallow breath.

John's fingers were on the side of his neck, pressing gently, searching. "Where the hell is your pulse?" he grumbled to himself. Sherlock knew it was rhetoric, but answered anyways.

"Low blood pressure means weak and hard to find pulse, John." The cotton-feeling to his tongue slurred his words a bit. John sat back on his heels, his hand dropping away from Sherlock's neck.

"How much water have you had today? Or yesterday, for that matter?" John asked, dropping his attitude into what Sherlock knew as Doctor mode. Sherlock didn't answer and instead focused on getting the feeling back into his toes. "...I thought so." John took his lack of answer as an answer itself, and in less than three minutes, there was a glass being pushed into his hand.

Sherlock gripped at the cup and drank.

"You know, whether your flatmate knows about a pre-existing condition or not, it's polite to--I don't know-- _drink the damn water_  he leaves for you," John grumbled. Sherlock finished off the glassful in a few long swallows and set the glass on the floor. "Do you think you can get up now?"

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, then bent and snagged the glass by the rim for refilling. "Obviously." He ignored John's scoff, and set the cup a bit too hard on the counter. All right, still a bit disoriented. It would go away in a few moments. As he stood there, Sherlock also ignored the sounds of John digging around in the cabinets around him.

"Oi. Eat these too. If your blood pressure's low, you need sodium." A packet of crisps hit the side of his head and dropped to the counter. "I mean it, Sherlock. Open the packet right now."

Yes, Sherlock conceded to himself, This was much better than the worried, pitying glances Mycroft would have given him as he made Sherlock stop working for the rest of the day over something as small as a head rush. (Whether it had him passing out for a moment or not.)


End file.
